


History Forgets You

by InterstellarToaster, Maesonry



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Fix It With My Bare Hands, Minor Original Character(s), Oops! I Did It Again, POV Second Person, Parenthood, Reader-Insert, Slice of Life, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-05-27 02:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15014822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InterstellarToaster/pseuds/InterstellarToaster, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maesonry/pseuds/Maesonry
Summary: There is a little boy, at Smith’s Grove Sanitarium, no more than six years old. The doctors call him catatonic, they call him pure evil. The nurses avoid him, the treatments don’t work. There’s nothing they can do for him.History is written by the victors. You know the truth.There is a little boy at Smith’s Gove Sanitarium, six and a half years old. The doctors, overworked and underpaid, call him evil. The nurses torment him, the ‘treatments’ are barbaric. They’ve done nothing for him. They pat themselves on the backs and say they tried their best.Little Michael Audrey Myers, six and a half years old, is to be forgotten. A parenthesis in history.You are the only thing standing in the way of that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reader nurse becomes a mamma bear to little Michael

Smith's Grove Warren County Sanitarium, 1964

 

April’s cold rains washed over your car, rattling off of the metal with tiny raps. The windshield wipers lazily whipped back and forth, letting you peer through the haze. Smith’s Grove Sanitarium dominated the horizon, a looming, unerring edifice of brick. If you were feeling poetic, it could be called a monument of neglect. But, as you viewed it through the dying light of dusk, it was simply ‘work’. Painted red lips twisted downwards into a frown as you drove closer, and your hands unconsciously gripped the steering wheel tighter, nails leaving little imprints in the leather. 

Your eyes flitted to the left, and you turned the wheel, pulling up the entranceway of the asylum. The wrought iron fence stretched around you, and you pulled to a halt near the gate, beside the security box. There was never a guard in there. After a moment, the gate automatically opened, and you pulled in- the rest of the drive slow, up the driveway, until you reached the employee parking lot. Most workers were gone for the day, and only the deadshift staff remained. That meant you. You pulled into an empty spot, right beside the car of one of the doctors, before taking the keys out of the ignition, glancing at yourself in the mirror, and then stepping out. You opened your umbrella with a bit of a struggle, and sighed.

“Nurse, so good to see you!” A voice greeted. You turned, your hand gripping the car door, and mentally, you cursed. Outwardly, though, the only sign of your distress was a quick glance to the blue Pontiac you’d parked beside. The car of...

“Dr. Loomis,” You waved, “How are you?”

Dr. Loomis ran a hand through his receding hair. You noticed that he didn’t seem to mind the rain that fell on him, shaking his head, “Not well. It’s Michael again, I’m afraid.”

You gripped the car door tighter, “Michael Timm?” You asked, tilting your head, a feigned ignorance, a touch of hope.

“Myers,” Dr. Loomis reached into his leather bag, pulling out some keys that had been sandwiched between papers, “I’ll be talking to the board tomorrow about moving him to a more secure location.”

You managed to keep the stutter out of your voice, “Why? Did something happen?”

“My dear, nothing happened, aside from his usual existence. Evil does not sleep,” Dr. Loomis muttered, slotting the keys into the car door, “He’s too crafty. I know he’s hiding something, I just know.”

You closed your eyes to maintain an expression of easy serenity, but you were gripping the car door so hard, it hurt, “He’s a child, doctor,” You reminded. Your voice sounded strained. But, Dr. Loomis didn’t notice, too busy trying to unlock his car. In fact, he continued, as though he hadn’t heard you.

“His catatonia is a farce. A mask, to hide pure evil. Six months, I just need to tell them...” Dr. Loomis paused, looking over to you, “I’m sorry, did you say something?” 

You swallowed your bitter vitriol, “Nothing. Have a good night, doctor.”

Dr. Loomis waved to you briefly as he entered his car. It must have been brand new. You turned away quickly, taking a calming breath, before making your way to the employee entrance. But, the long walk gave you time to think, and thinking for you meant trouble, because all you could think about was little Michael Audrey Myers. The rain pitter pattered off your umbrella. 

Michael, or as you called him, Mikey, was six and a half years old. His records spoke of an advanced development for his age, and he would’ve been put into Kindergarten this September, had he not... 

“Had he not killed his sister,” You whispered. It was like fiddling with a loose tooth, you couldn’t stop turning the problem over in your head. Why did he do it? That was what you asked yourself, for six months straight. While Dr. Loomis and the others tried brute force, you were subtle, researching what your degree couldn’t cover. And when the others cried out that Michael was a lost case, that he was simply and purely evil (a _child_ ), you knew the truth. After all, being assigned as his nurse for six months meant you saw what others didn’t. 

“Michael Audrey Myers, scared of authority figures, lacking verbal development, and responds to stress by clamming up,” You listed. The sentence was monotone, because you’d said it so many times before. No one listened. His catatonia was a farce, they claimed. Yes, it was, because he is six (and a half) years old, and hasn’t seen his parents since they left him here, and everything was so sterile and cold that it must have been terrifying.

The sound of rain cut off. You blinked back into focus, realizing you were at the employee entrance. The overhang above shielded you from the worst of the rainfall, and you sighed, slowly lowering your umbrella, shaking the water from it as you closed it up. You looked down at one of the puddles, catching your reflection. You looked sad.

“Come on, get a grip,” You chided yourself, forcing your face into a neutral expression, “You’re fine.”

You turned back to the door, entering in the key code to open it. The rusted hinges whined, but did their job, the door slowly sliding open as you pushed it. Well, that was one security measure– doors that took three shoves to open. You let out a breath of air once you were inside, shoving the door shut. Silence. You glanced around, but the staff changing room was empty. This would be one of the only two times you’d have silence today, so you took care not to break it, walking softly over to where you’d left your cleaned uniform the day prior. It was pressed and the white fabric nearly pristine. As you went to grab it, something fell out of the upper pocket. And, as you bent down to grab it, you gasped in recognition. But, it was a sad noise.

“Oh, Mikey,” You whispered, cupping the paper delicately. It was flimsy and messily made, but you could see where the lines were supposed to go, paper all folded together to make an origami bird. You made them when you sat with Michael, putting them on his windowsill to try and make the room happier. You must’ve left some paper, because the next day, you found a partially folded bird, tucked near the others. You held the little thing close to your chest, feeling your heart unravel, “I’m sorry...”

You didn’t know what you apologized for, but it didn’t feel like enough. You sniffed demurely, like you weren’t about to cry, and set the bird down gently on the top shelf. Then, with deft movements that spoke of one who had done this a hundred times before, you removed your shirt and pants, swapping into the stark and sterile nurse uniform that was your station. After a moment’s hesitation, you plucked up the bird, setting it back into your pocket, angling it so that the head peaked out– a little flash of color. You smiled.

“Helloo, Nurse,” A voice called. Your pleasant smile flickered into a frown. You turned your head to the side, looking to the doorway, at the woman who stood there. Your frown tinged itself with an unhappy grimace. 

“Hello, Ms. Frump,” You greeted, “Is something wrong?”

“Your hair,” Ms. Frump snorted, crossing her large arms over her torso, “What did you do to it?”

“Nothing, I just got in,” You reminded. You didn’t... dislike Head Nurse Pamela Frump. That would be unprofessional, and you were always courteous and professional. At work. At home, however, if anyone asked, you’d tell them that Ms. Pamela Frump was a very nasty person. She’d been the Head Nurse and Smith’s Grove for twenty years, and maybe she had been a pleasant woman once, but that part of her had shriveled up and died long ago. Now, she delighted in cruelty and laughed at the misfortune of the poor patients in her care. So, no, you didn’t dislike Ms. Frump: you hated her. 

“Let me fix it,” Ms. Frump rolled her eyes, coming up behind you before you could protest, then sitting you down on the bench, pulling out a comb from your locker and setting to work. Her hands deftly began to sort through your hair, the comb occasionally yanking hard, “Hmp. You need to take better care of yourself. Have you been sleeping?”

“Yes,” Was all you said. It took all your effort not to snarl, as she pulled hard on another portion of hair.

“Liar,” She said, “You’re working late, staying with that basket-case, Myers,” She stopped to section off another portion of hair, “You shouldn’t.”

“He’s just a child,” You retorted. There was the sound of a rubberband tying your hair together roughly, and you winced.

“You keep saying that, but don’t you ever get tired of being wrong all the time?” Ms. Frump asked. She didn’t wait for a response, “There, done. Come on, you’re already late to your rounds, Nurse,” and she dropped your hat onto your head, before she turned and went to grab the medical cart.

You stood up, fixing your hat, and casting once last glance down at the origami bird Michael had made you, before hurrying after Ms. Frump.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched the scenes with Smith’s Grove, because I can’t even write something for fun without being compelled to research it, and their doors open inwards. So basically you could like... block your door if you were in one of the rooms  
> Don’t come in, I’m chilling

As always, your first round came to a close near the room (or rather, the cell) of Michael Myers. And, as always, you were nearly trudging by the time you got there. It wasn’t even halfway through your night by this point, one o’clock in the morning had just rung out, and yet, you felt yourself at your wits end. You’d known what type of job you were getting into when you accepted the position at Smith’s Grove Sanitarium, but somehow, it always ended up getting worse. Down the hall, you could hear Dennis screaming, and you squeezed your eyes shut, reminding yourself that his medication would kick in soon. But, the fresh bruise on your upper arm from where Adar had grabbed you still throbbed painfully. You reminded yourself that it wasn’t the patient’s fault for how they were acting, and gently readjusted your hat, tucking more hair back into place so that you didn’t frighten Michael. 

You brought the linens cart to a stop. It was nearly empty at this point, and you’d timed your round so that you could stay for an extra twenty minutes with little Mikey before anyone expected you back. Or at least, before Ms. Frump came screeching down the hall to find you. You glanced around, making sure nothing was out of place. The walls were still a concrete grey, the floors still tiled, and the light fixtures still bare. Down the hall, the security office, where Mr. Stevens could be found taking his nightly paid naps. You shook your head, before turning to Michael’s door. There was a little window for you to look in through, but you preferred knocking instead. It gave the ward some semblance of privacy. Two gentle knocks on the door.

“Mikey,” You called, voice low and quiet, “It’s me. I’m coming in, okay?” 

No response, which meant that everything was normal. Carefully, you pulled the door open, stepping inside and closing it behind yourself with ease. You looked up. The room was as barren as you last remembered it, a calculated white, cold floors and colder drafts from the single window he was allowed. Blue sheets, a pillow, that made up the bed. A nightstand, and a single chair made up the rest of the furniture. The only other color in the sterile room was the collection of origami animals you’d made on the windowsill. They were moved closer to the edge of the ledge than before, as if they were huddling away from the slight puddle of rain that had leaked in. You smiled kindly. Michael was sitting on the bed, his knees touched close to his chest. He didn’t look over to you when you entered, but that didn’t mean he didn’t notice you.

“Hi, Mikey,” You greeted, moving to the edge of the bed and smoothing down a spot. You hesitated before sitting down, giving him time to tell you (not with words, but the slightest of motions) that that was too close today. When you found none, you sat down. The bedsprings made you wince, and you shifted a little to get comfortable, idly removing your nurse hat and setting it down beside yourself. When you looked back up, Michael had moved a little closer. You smiled.

“I’m sorry I was late,” You apologized. The silence here was comfortable. Down the hall, it seemed Dennis had gone silent for the moment, and the hallway lights from the window in the door wasn’t too oppressive. The room felt like a room, yes, but that was all. It made more pieces of your heart unravel every time you thought of Mikey having to be alone in here, every day. 

Usually, you spent your time here sitting in the silence, folding origami and quietly humming, or talking to Michael gently. But, as you went to get some paper out, you noticed something odd: Mikey was actively staring at you now. He blinked tentatively, his feet were angled slightly inwards, and the tips of his fingers were pressed close together. You tilted your head purposely, feeling the loose hairs rebel with the motion. All of those little movements told you that Michael wanted something, but he wouldn’t ask. That meant you had to figure out what. Quickly, you began to mentally sort through everything it could be. And, with a tiny smile, you began to sing as quietly as you could. 

“Tell me, have you ever seen the Boogeyman  
before?” You asked. Mikey instantly seemed to perk up without any of the actual motion, all of his attention on your voice. You made sure to pitch it low so it carried to him, but not out the door, “No, I think you haven’t, for you’re much too good I’m sure.”

As the song went on, you noticed Michael began to relax. Visibly, this time, as he no longer stood vigil over the door, and his eyes began to droop, until his stance was hunched over and you could hear his breathing. 

“Hush, hush, hush, here comes the Bogeyman,” You sang one final time, trailing the rest of the song off into a hum, as you watched your ward drift off to sleep. A quick glance at your watch, and you knew that you had to get going soon, least Ms. Frump find you. But, as you went to stand up, Michael seemed to awaken as well. His eyes were wide, and he reached out to you. The motion nearly broke your heart, “I’m sorry, Mikey, I have to go,” You stood up entirely, moving to the door. 

“Please.”

You froze. Then, very slowly, you turned around, your eyes on Michael. Had he?...

“Did you just?...” Your voice was tremulous, and you couldn’t stop yourself from hurrying over to him, wrapping your arms around him in a hug, “Oh god, Mikey.”

Two little arms tentatively wrapped around you as well, and just like that, your heart broke. Oh god. Tomorrow, Dr. Loomis would be petitioning to move Michael away, to somewhere even worse than Smith’s Grove, and you wouldn’t be there to protect him. He was already being isolated, his parents were gone, and no one cared but you. History wanted to forget him. Your shoulders twitched as you felt tears begin to pool in your eyes at the hopelessness of the entire situation. You couldn’t do anything, you–

Wait... 

You... you could do something. What was stopping you? Who would stop you? There was nothing here, at this late an hour. The security guard was sleeping. Ms. Frump was too busy with her rounds. You, you could do something...

And, just like that, your mind proposed an ingenious plan, built solely from all the time you’d spent working at Smith’s Grove. No one would even notice Michale was gone until tomorrow afternoon. And, if you were quick enough, that would be too late for them. History wanted to forget little Michael Audrey Myers, lock him up and lose the key. But, you wouldn’t let that happen. You looked down at the boy in your arms, and you knew that you would save him.

“Mikey,” You began, voice secretive, “Do you want to leave here?” 

The tiniest increase in pressure from his hug. That was your response.

“Okay. I have a plan to get you out,” You whispered, glancing over to the door, “I’m going to need you to be very still and very quiet. Is that okay?”

Michael barely shifted his head. You smiled, “Alright then. Let me pick you up, and we can go.”

With a bit of effort, you picked Michael up, letting out a huff of air at the weight. Then, you walked to the door, opening it and stepping into the hall. You checked around, and as before, nothing was remiss. The only thing that stood out was the laundry cart, with its fresh linens. You glanced up and down the hall one more time, before opening the lid, “In here,” You nodded, as you set Mikey down. You bit your cheek as you moved some of the sheets to partially cover him. It would pass a glance over, but not a complete search. It was all you had. Then, you stepped back, “I’m going to close the lid. We’ll be out soon, Mikey.”

Michael looked up at you, and his eyes, usually carefully guarded, held something you didn’t expect: love. You felt the strands of your heart bind together, and your smile was bright enough to light up the sun, “Okay. Let’s go.”

You closed the lid, and began to push the cart down the hall. If history wanted to forget little Michael Audrey Myers, they’d have to take him from you first.


	3. Chapter 3

Mr. Stevens’ security office. As always, the man in question was watching football on the monitor, as opposed to actually watching the cameras. You still felt a spike of disgust that he would be so careless with the safety of the patients, but this time, you also felt relief, since that meant he hadn’t seen you smuggling Michael into the linens cart. You sighed in relief, rolling the cart past, “Hello, Mr. Stevens,” You called. 

Mr. Stevens glanced over, “Hey there, Nurse, I–“ Then, he paused, “Can you come here for a minute?”

You were grateful that your default expression was of easy serenity “Oh?” But you made no move to, well, move. That was okay, as Mr. Stevens came to the doorway a moment later, leaning on it. You turned to him, keeping the cart at your back. 

“I haven’t seen you around as much lately,” Mr. Stevens laughed. You laughed with him, your voice high where his was low. But even now, your mind recalled the facts you knew, cataloguing each one as easily as remembering his face. Forty five years old, divorced twice, dismissed from the police force for unspecified reasons. It was little wonder that he’d ended up at Smith’s Grove. It seemed that everyone unwanted did. 

“I’ve just been busy,” You replied, adjusting your hat without meaning to, tucking hair back into place and casting an unintentional, lingering glance to Michael’s room down the hall. Mr. Stevens, keen when it counted, noticed, and rolled his eyes, but there was a gross sympathy there. Misplaced.

“You’re still stuck with him, huh?” He asked, his voice overflowing with patronizing pity, “Damn shame, making someone as pretty as you work with that circus act.”

In the reflection of a poster set in a garden, your peaceful expression was tinted with honeysuckle and lilac, “Michael Myers is a child, Mr. Stevens,” You ignored the compliment, your voice unhappy, a stark contrast to your face. This wasn’t the first time he’d tried to have this conversation with you, and he wasn’t the first person to say it, by any means. You hoped that your tone would scare him off.

“I know, right?” But, it flew right over the man’s head, “Don’t understand how a kid could do something like that. Must be one fucked up family.” 

Your expression twitched, and then hardened, “Mr. Stevens,” Your voice was arctic now, devoid of any pleasantries, and you had to calm yourself, remind yourself that some people couldn’t help what they did, “Was there something you needed? I have to get back to work.”

Mr. Stevens rubbed the back of his neck. You laid your hands gently on the top of the laundry cart, tapping methodically to calm yourself. Like clockwork, you knew what would happen next, as Mr. Stevens cleared his throat, “Right, right. I was, well, I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner sometime?” 

The only outward sign of your annoyance was the tightening of the muscles in your neck. Every week, at least once, this same conversation. The same peppered compliments, the same tired insults. Maybe he thought that if he asked a hundred times, he’d get lucky eventually. It was a gambler’s fallacy, you reminded yourself. The urge to snap at him was heavy, but instead, you paused. A strange, ethereal calm passed over you, as light as a bird’s wing. You stepped forward.

”Only if I can talk to you in your office for a moment,” You replied. Mr. Stevens face brightened, and he turned.

“I- just a second!” He shouted, hurrying in, undoubtedly to clean off the trash from his desk. You took the opportunity to lean down to the laundry cart.

”Give me a minute, Michael. I have to take care of something.”

You stepped away from the cart, smoothing down your uniform as you walked to and entered the security room, as quietly as you could. Mr. Stevens was hunched over his desk, muttering quietly to himself as he swept this and that aside. You could see the security footage there, all of the poor patients shoved into rooms, forgotten. It was a mixed blessing that there was no audio. You did your best to help them, but you were only one person, and they needed so much more. You couldn’t take them, it was both too late and you were too little, only able to spirit away one little boy from a terrible future. Your eyes flitted to the door release switch.

Slowly, you walked up behind Mr. Stevens. You felt, in your heart, all of the rage that had built up inside you, the annoyances of years upon years– and brutally, you squashed them. Instead, you calmly noted the position Mr. Stevens was in. Neck exposed, head near the desk.

”Oh my god, watch out!” You gasped, dirty theatrics, and as Mr. Stevens shot up to see what was happening, you slammed his head into the desk. The perfect angle for a concussion. Nothing lethal, and you made sure to catch his unconscious body before he hit the ground. Carefully, you heaved him back into his chair, wiping off your hands after. With deft movements, you walked over to the security control station and began to flip the switches. In ten minutes, all of the doors would open. It would be a diversion, and also your last gift to them. You wished you could do more.

“Goodbye, Mr. Stevens”, You nodded, thinking in the back of your mind that you’d never see each other again. Out the office you walked, returning to the laundry cart and giving the side a brief yet reassuring pat, as you began to wheel it away. It was the final stretch now. You just had to get Michael into the laundry room. Then, you could leave through the employee changing room entrance, and from there you’d both go to the car and go home. You yawned, wishing that you’d be able to just sleep when you got to your house, but you knew that you couldn’t. If books had taught you anything, it was that you’d have to leave home for good. You’d have been more upset if you had anything keeping you here. But, with your family gone, and you living alone in a derelict apartment, you didn’t care about leaving. The world was open to you, and you’d find somewhere that little Mikey could be happy and safe, no matter the cost. 

You entered the laundry room. Piles of laundry, clean and dirty, lay in piles or in baskets on the floor. There was an array of folded ones, to be taken out to be changed later. You glanced around, before pushing the laundry cart to the other side of the room, near the staff changing entrance. No one around, and no one would notice you, especially not when all of the other patients were released. You smiled quietly and sighed with relief.

“It should be safe,” You whispered to the laundry cart, “Hold on, let me–“

“Nurse, there you are!” A familiar voice bellowed from the doorway. The one person you hadn’t counted on; Ms. Frump. She wasn’t supposed to have noticed your absence yet, which meant that she was only here because she’d looked for you, and that was bad. She only ever looked for you specifically if she wanted to tell you something, and her brand of telling was always... You cleared your throat, glad that your voice was steady, your face frozen in contrast.

“Yes, Ms. Frump?” You answered, still hunched over the laundry cart, the picture of an unmoving statue. You just had to be calm. The patients would get out soon, and she’d have to deal with them, leaving you time to escape with little Mikey. Everything would be fine, as long as Frump was herself.

“What are you doing in here?” She grunted. Mechanically, You rose yourself up from the cart, still not looking at her. An excuse jumped to your mind, and you latched onto it.

“The laundry, Ms. Frump.”

With rigid grace, you turned to the dryers, popping it open and beginning to slowly pull out cleaned sheets. Ms. Frump made a dissatisfied noise, but then seemed to shrug. You could hear her leaning on the wall, and in your mind’s eye, you could see her crossing her arms, the smirk on her face. She was unpleasant, and a small part of you just wanted her to leave you alone, for once in your life..

“Right. So, you heard the news?” She asked. Your face relaxed, and you found yourself relieved in one way that she wasn’t going to try and interrogate you further– but that small joy disappeared when you knew that she wouldn’t leave.

“What news?” You tilted your head, setting down a folded sheet and masking a tremor with a precise inhale.

“Myers, the basket case; the courts just got in contact with his only remaining relative, tried to hand him off to them,” Ms. Frump sounded far too delighted for this to actually be good news, “They said no!” 

Twang, went your self control. A mixture of Ms. Frump generally existing, combined with your disbelief “What?” You barked, and then just as quickly, bottled your anger back up. No, no no, you didn’t get angry, you were fine, just–

_Shuffle_ , the sound of movement from the laundry cart. It was brief, the sound of two sheets rubbing together as Mikey shifted. It was slight enough that, had you not stolen the noise from the room with your shout, it would have been ignored. But, that wasn’t the case. Maybe you’d scared Michael or maybe he was upset that no one wanted him, but... what happened now was that Ms. Frump noticed. Her head shot over to the laundry cart.

“What was that?” Ms. Frump demanded. You continued to fold the fitted sheets, as if nothing had happened, but your mind was spinning to try and come up with something to say, to divert her. You wanted to kick and scream, like a caged animal, knowing you were cornered but helpless to do anything.

“What was what?” You asked, your voice airy and pleasant, your expression perfectly unreadable. The sheets shook so hard that you couldn’t keep a grip, and you had to try and set them down, your hands gripping the side of the dryer, so hard that your fingers groaned.

“Nurse. What aren’t you telling me?” Ms. Frump growled, beginning to walk up to you. Your back was rigid, like a shield to protect you, and you could feel her looming. You hated that you cringed away, and that small, angry part of your heart that was kindled every time any injustice was dealt ignited. When you didn’t answer, your throat impossibly dry, Ms. Frump demanded, “Answer me.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” You stated, stuttering slightly as you continued, “You’re just hearing things, I– ow!”

Ms. Frump yanked hard on your hair, forcefully turning you to face her. Her face was utter suspicion, and bitter contempt, “You’re hiding something from me?” 

“No,” You cringed, “I swear.”

“So you wouldn’t mind me looking in this laundry cart?” Ms. Frump smiled darkly. 

“Go right ahead,” You replied, your voice cracking. She hummed and released her hold of your hair, beginning for the cart. Meanwhile, your mind went into a full panic. She couldn’t look in there! She’d find Michael, and then she’d take him away.

They... they’d take Michael away. They’d keep him here for years, where no one here loved him, and no one _outside_ loved him, and he’d be doomed to be forgotten, or tormented, and you couldn’t do anything. It was all your fault.

“No,” You mouthed, feeling along the wall beside yourself. The feeling from earlier began to slowly simmer to the surface. It was the same feeling you had when Ms. Frump yanked your hair, when you saw them mistreating patients, when you were forced to work dead shifts because you were alone and no one cared. It was a resentment that had built up over the years, and now, it was coming to the surface. You’d never been one to anger, but ever since working here, being harassed and abused, and no one gave a damn, and they wanted to take away the one thing that you finally had, and...

**Snap**. The same calm from earlier gently brushed over you, at the sound of your self control breaking into pieces. Your hand closed around the emergency fire axe. The wood was smooth, and it made little noise as you removed it from the case, as you felt your mind go very quiet, as you held the axe in your hands. It had a heft to it.

“Now, what do we have here?” Ms. Frump gasped, looking into the laundry cart, “You bitch!” She snarled, snapping to turn to you, “You think you could try and–“

Ms. Frump took a moment to look at you, and then her demeanor changed, from hostile to scared, “Nurse. What are you doing?”

You began to walk forward. Ms. Frump walked back.

“Put that down,” She commanded. When you didn’t respond, she screamed it, “Put that down right this instant!”

Her back hit the wall. You walked past the laundry cart, “Don’t look, Mikey,” your voice an afterthought.

“I didn’t mean any of that, you know?” Ms. Frump began to plead, raising her flabby arms up, “I, I swear! It’s nothing personal! I’m sorry, please, I–“

You rose the axe up. 

“No! No, wait! I’m sorry! I’m–“

“Be _quiet_!” You roared . You brought the axe down.

“Stop!” She cried out.

And you brought the axe down again. 

“No–“

And again.

“!...”

And again.

And again.

...

You dropped the axe. With an air of utmost calm, you surveyed the scene. Well. Ms. Frump wouldn’t be telling anyone anytime soon. You tucked some hair behind your ears, wiping away some of the blood splatter from your cheek. In fact, this was better than you could have hoped for. With the patients getting released, no one would expect that it was you.

“It’s okay Michael,” You calmly stated, turning to face the cart. He watched you strangely, and you smiled gently, “See? Everyone makes mistakes.”

Michael didn’t say anything, but again, that wasn’t unusual. Carefully, you reached out to him, picking him up in your arms. Then, wordlessly, you stepped over the worst of the scene, walking into the changing room. Your shoes left bloody imprints on the ground, as you went to your cubby and grabbed your umbrella. It wouldn’t do to get wet, could catch a cold. You walked to the door, Michael in your arms. A heavy shove to open it, and you stepped outside. The rain was thundering across the ground in sheets, and overhead, echoes of lighting. You opened your umbrella, shielding you and Michael. Then, you began to walk down the winding path, to your car. Michael watched the rain in fascination, as it washed away your bloody soles, and you smiled as you walked away from Smith’s Grove for the final time.

History will forget you.


	4. Chapter 4

Whitehill, Washington, 1972

 

“Michael!”

It was autumn. The forest, with its colorful array of leaves, seemed to be presenting one last display before winter would come. The forest floor was littered with piles of orange, yellow, and red, just dry enough to crumble underfoot. And even more fell to join them, when a breeze jostled the branches, a rain of leaves that drifted sporadically to the ground. The occasional call of birds and murmur of insects filled the silence, but it was calm, unbroken. 

Save for, of course, the young boy running down the trail. 

“Michael!” The same voice from before called. At the sound of the name, or rather, _his_ name, the boy’s head turned, and he quickened his pace. Six years time and two thousand miles distance had changed little Michael Myers into a person different entirely. His hair had become a darker shade, now cut much shorter. His face had filled out somewhat, a small amount of freckles, and his eyes had lost the hollow quality from before. He’d need braces in a few years. Michael brushed some dirt from his jacket, just as he broke the treeline of the forest, appearing in a backyard. To the side, a wooden treehouse, an old sandbox, a shed. And, at the front, a house. In the doorway, you stood. 

“Mikey, there you are!” You shook your head, fondly exasperated. Michael ran the rest of the way of the yard, jumping up the steps of the patio and closing the rest of the distance with a hug. You smiled, returning the hug and lightly ruffling his hair. Time had been kind to you. Your face had more wrinkles, but they were the kind that spoke of fond memories. You adjusted some of your hair, glancing at the clock behind yourself.

“Come on, you’re going to be late,” You warned, ushering Mikey into the house. He broke away from the hug and hurriedly scampered upstairs, as you called after him, “Don’t track any mud on the carpet!” 

No reply, but, you still smiled and rolled your eyes at the sound of shoes being taken off. You closed the backdoor behind yourself and began to walk after. The house’s layout was intimately familiar, but you could still recall the days when the rooms seemed strange and foreign. But now, that was just a distant memory. You exited the kitchen, going down the hall to the staircase. The photos you had hung up spoke of happy times, pictures of Michael on his first day of school (his first day... you could remember how scared you’d been to let him out of your sight), of his first birthday party (it was only you and him that year. But his eyes had went so wide at the sight of the cake, all for him), and of simpler things, like playing in the park or going on vacation. 

You rounded the corner, your ears catching the end of some news channel report coming from the living room, “ _It’s been six years since what authorities have called the–_ ,” and it fell out of range just as quickly. You walked up the staircase, the occasional board creaking, and you absently grabbed a few books you’d set down to put back up on the shelf. Silence: raising a nonverbal child, one title said. You set them down at the top of the banister to get later. Michael’s room was at the left of the hall, the door closed. You knocked.

“Can I come in?” You inquired. There was the sound of shuffling, before another rap of knuckles came in return, and you carefully pushed the door open. As you glanced over the room, you couldn’t help but smile. It was a far, far cry from his old room. The walls were a light teal, the carpet worn but still soft. Bookshelves at the corners, a desk, a bed, posters plastered on the wall and countless toys spilled across the floor. You gently nudged a few out of the way as you made your way to Michael, who sat at the center of the chaos, assembling some legos together, quickly looking up at you and giving you a small smile. 

_How much has changed_.

“We need to get you ready,” You turned to the closet and began searching through clothing, “But where did I... ah! Here,” and you pulled out Michael’s Halloween costume. It even had a little cowboy hat. You turned back, the cowboy costume in your hands, “Come on,” you urged, “We have to leave soon.”

Michael nodded, standing and taking the costume you held out. He was already growing like a weed, and soon you knew he’d be just as awkward and gangly as any other teenager. You left the room to give him privacy, and pointedly did not think about your little Mikey growing up and leaving you with this empty house. A knock on the door broke your attention, and out stepped Michael, looking pleased. You smiled, the cowboy costume too endearing to ignore. 

“Okay, are you ready?” You asked. Michael paused, fixing some unseen part of the costume, before nodding, satisfied. You placed a lightly hand on his back and guided him towards the stairs with you. He didn’t need to be told twice, and eagerly hurried down the steps, jumping down the last two and turning back to face you, standing expectantly at the door. You laughed.

“Go out to the car, I just need to grab something,” You explained. Quick as a flash, Michael was out the front door, trick-or-treat bag in his hands as he raced to the car. That left you to go and retrieve your keys from the living room. You glanced at yourself in the mirror as you passed, wondering if the nurse’s costume was a little on the nose, but you mentally shrugged. You were two thousand miles away from Illinois, and the only person who would’ve suspected anything was... enjoying a nice, long vacation in Hell.

The television in the living room still continued from before, unrelenting, and you couldn’t help but stop to look at it.

“-unable to report. As you may remember, the boy was transported to Smith's Grove Warren County Sanitarium, to begin his rehabilitation. Unfortunately, the boy is still reported missing, after the security breach that occurred only six months after, which claimed the lives of one Pamela Frump, along with an unnamed nurse, as the patients rioted, causing–“

You clicked your tongue and shut off the tv. They were only running this report since Michael’s little sister had been found, in custody of adoptive parents. Reporters were like vultures. You grabbed the keys, adjusting your hat and tucking some hair behind your ears as you made your way to the car. For now, you had to take Michael to his friend’s house to go trick- or-treating, and by then the news would have moved on.

History had already forgotten you.


End file.
